


Curious

by queensguardian



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, I Don't Even Know, If You Squint - Freeform, Language, M/M, Reincarnation, a lot of these pairings are only briefly mentioned, benjamin button au, but like only at the end and you see it coming, if you're not here for jeanmarco, you're probably in the wrong place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensguardian/pseuds/queensguardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is born with the body of an old man. The older he gets, the younger and healthier his body becomes. Trying to cope with this is a lifelong struggle, but it is also a happy one. Particularly with Jean at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curious

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man. I have been working on this since December. I don't think I'll ever be completely satisfied with it, but I want to post it, so here it is. I hope it doesn't suck. Also, I use a few quotes from the movie "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" but for the sake of the flow of the piece, I didn't want to separate them out and source them. So for the sake of respect to the original, I'll say here that I don't own any original idea, or quotes from the movie, or the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald. 
> 
> There is so much in my mind about this story that I didn't include. After all, how can you fit an entire lifetime into a single, one-part fic? But I tried to stay true to the story and the characters, so that has to count for something.  
>  
> 
> [8tracks for the piece](http://8tracks.com/queensguardian/curious)
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr, in case you have any questions](http://queensguardian.tumblr.com/)
> 
> *Idk why AO3 fucked with my spacing

At first glance, the street corner looked incredibly peaceful. A porch swing creaked in the humid afternoon breeze, and music played from an old record player on the second floor of the mansion that had stood proudly for so many years. But all who had lived in this area of town for any length of time knew to hurry as they passed this front door, so as to avoid the chaos inside.

“Armin!” Krista called out, holding a load of dirtied clothes at arm’s length and trying to keep as calm as possible.

“What is it? I’m a little busy at the moment!” Armin replied from where he was helping old Mrs. Rico to her room.

“Don' you touch me, young man. When I was your age, men had _class._ Not like you whippersnappers. If I was your mother, I’d take a cane to you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rico. You’re absolutely right. Now, if you could just settle down, Mrs. Hange just broke something in her room again and the smell is making everyone else complain.”

“Armin! This is important!” Krista insisted.

He gently shut the door behind the rambling woman, and leaned against the worn banister of the mansion. “Yes. What is it? I need to go and make sure Hange isn’t dying.”

“Armin, I just found something that I think you might be interested in.”

“Unless it’s something that can simultaneously pacify thirty elderly people, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“No...I was going through Jean's things, you see...” They were interrupted by a sharp  _crash_ from Hange's room, followed by a loud whoop, and Armin glanced to her door. He didn't want to be rude to Krista, but he was seriously starting to worry.

"Yes?" He pulled away from the banister. "Hange, if you have made another experiment I swear--"

"I found Marco's journal." 

This finally got Armin’s attention. “You what? I didn’t even know he kept a journal.”

“Well, apparently he did. It was with Jean’s things. I guess he left it to us.”

Armin cast a fleeting glance to the worn book that Krista clutched in her hands, before wincing at the sound of shattering glass coming from one of the rooms on the second floor. “Look, I really want to read this. I do. But if I don’t take care of Hange, someone is going to die. You start reading it, and I’ll join you in a minute, ok?”

Krista hummed her assent, before hiding herself in the pantry and opening up the dusty pages, content to avoid work for a few hours.

***

I was born on June Sixteenth, in the year of 1920. The circumstances of my birth were entirely ordinary, and should have led to an entirely ordinary baby, and an entirely ordinary life. Indeed, my parents had taken all the precautions they possibly could, given the times, and had gone to great lengths creating an environment in which they thought I could flourish.

Perhaps it was the heat of that particular summer night, or perhaps it was the way my mother cursed at God as she went through her delivery. Or perhaps it was entirely my fault, as my father would say to himself to lessen his guilt later in life. But whatever the case may be, I was born after thirty hours of labor, and my mother succumbed to peaceful death shortly thereafter.

My father had been so excited; this birth was meant to be the most joyous day of his life. But as he watched his wife give a last, long exhale, he called for me to be brought to him by the nurses, and he was given the second most horrifying shock of his life.

You see—and this is perhaps a very important detail about me—as you might have figured out by now, I was not born “normally.” No, as a matter of fact I was born very strangely; I was born old.

It feels quite strange to put down on paper, actually, but I feel that I must if I am to give you the full picture, whoever you are. You may not believe me; that’s alright, only a handful of people even knew about my condition. If the world had known, I would probably have been sent to some kind of scientific place of study, and you have to understand that in those days, places of “experimentation” were not known to be safe or trustworthy places.

 I must have been especially hideous, as my father took one look at me and completely panicked. I can’t say I blamed him; I was as small as a normal baby, only covered in the wrinkles of an ancient man near death. I’d go so far as to say I looked like a demon from the myths.

So my father did what only seemed natural to him, and he took me out, leaving behind the fresh corpse of my mother, and attempted to drown me. But even in this he could not find his strength. Not that I wished he had found his courage on that dank night. If my father had not been such a coward there might be no story to tell here.

Instead, my father stood over the river in the humid June air and found that he could not take the life of the hideous, gasping thing in his arms. So he went to a place his coworker had told him about, down the road a bit from his factory, and left me at its doorstep.

And that is how Levi and Erwin Smith found me on the steps of the nursing home Levi owned. And that is where the real story begins.

 

They’ve told me how it went so many times I can picture it when I close my eyes, though I have no solid memory to show me. 

Levi had been working at the old folk’s home for several years, and he had been in love with Erwin for at least as many. His tall blond lover was ex-military, though you’d never guess from how kindly he behaved. Actually, in my growing up he had been more likely to rescue animals from the street than to hurt someone, and he had a gentle kind of love that he liked to think no one could see.

He had been with Levi helping out with the old people all evening, but he was heading home for the night. He and Levi were saying their goodbyes, all wrapped up in each other and probably paying absolutely no attention to the world around them, as they were so apt to do when they were around each other, when Erwin stepped backward down the stairs and nearly stepped on me as I lay where my father had left me.

Levi was the one to uncover me, brave soul that he was, and I am told that Erwin immediately wanted to call the police, but Levi wouldn’t allow it. Levi had an uncommon talent for seeing things that were hidden to most people, and perhaps he saw something in me that no one else—not even the perceptive Erwin—could see.  

Regardless of the reason, Levi decided that I would be staying with them, and once Levi decided something, neither God nor Erwin could convince him otherwise. I had a home.

. . .

“Marco! You get back from the edge there, you hear?”

I sighed exasperatedly and rolled my wheelchair away from the edge of the porch.  Levi never let me do anything fun, and it just wasn’t _fair._

I was only twelve years old, but my body looked at least seventy five. The lines that stretched across my face like roads on a map suggested wisdom, maturity, and experience, but that wasn’t how I felt. I didn’t know anything about anything. I was frail and breakable and ugly and I _hated_ it, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was just who I was. I thought that maybe I had wasted my youth in another life, and just couldn’t remember, and that was why God had made me old in this one; as a punishment.

I didn’t know at the time if the person who had dropped me off at the nursing home so many years ago had actually planned on putting me in a nursing home or if it had just worked out that way, but whatever had happened had worked out perfectly.

I was ancient, but immature and unwise as a child, and I sat with several other old people on the porch of the great old New Orleans mansion that had been converted into an old folk’s home, and I tried to pass the time by watching the other children play. The other old people were, for the most part, satisfied with their lives, or at least they couldn’t remember why they weren’t satisfied. They’d had every chance to have a full life, and they were comforted by the knowledge that they had used those chances and were everything that they could ever become, but I…I had never gotten that chance. I was old and destined for the grave, same as the rest of them (so I thought), but I had never gotten to experience love, or heartbreak, or all of the things that make us human. I’d never even gotten to play with children my own age, and I acutely felt the injustice of my situation.

Days passed lazily, as I absorbed the knowledge that one must take in from growing up with those more than twice one’s own age. I slept beside Levi’s bed in the basement of the great house on most nights, excepting when Erwin would sneak in to spend the night, and Levi was every bit the father to me that my own father never was.

He was crass, rude, sharp, and short-tempered, and a million different things that were perhaps not the epitome of a good person, but there was something about him that people just respected, and I was no exception. I loved him very, very much.

On the nights when Erwin would come to stay, I would be carried upstairs to sleep in my wheelchair on the second floor. I didn’t mind. There was something incredibly peaceful about listening to a sleeping house, and I would look out the windows to the street below, listening to the quiet breathing of the people. Despite my loneliness, I felt loved in that house. I felt safe.

. . .

The people in the house were all interesting creatures. As I said before, they had lived their full lives, and now they lived in their memories, as so many do. Without fail, every morning, no matter the weather, General Dot Pixis, US Army Retired, would go out on the lawn and raise the flag. Mrs. Nanaba, once an opera singer of some note, would sing Wagner out the open window to the backyard. And if you’ve never heard Wagner, congratulations on having been spared the…educational experience.

Erwin was the cook of the house. I had a sneaking suspicion he did it just to be close to Levi, because, as Retired Military, he could do anything he wanted. Yet there he was, at the old folks’ home, serving dinner at exactly 5:30 every evening. The food was never very good, but when I would sit with him in the hot kitchen and watch as he sweated over the gumbo or the jambalaya or whatever it was he was making, I could see how much love he had, and the food tasted just fine.

There was a lot of life in that house, but Death made his presence known just as often. In a house of the old and dying, it only made sense. And in fact, I grew accustomed to it, and though each funeral was a somber occasion, they were also very peaceful. Growing up with Death taught me not to be afraid of it, which was more than could be said of some of the people I would love later in life. And given that the elderly are always plentiful and always in need of a place to stay, the house was always busy. It was a wonderful place to grow up.

The first time I left the house was with a miraculous person named Mr. Oti. He swept in one morning like the tide, and I noticed him out in the backyard, telling stories to the old folks with an energy I had never seen in anyone before. He saw right through my skin, and knew that I was so much younger than I appeared, which hardly anyone could usually see. He offered to take me out on the town, and I found myself agreeing despite my best intentions. Levi had told me it was dangerous in the city, but Mr. Oti had a way of making everything seem like a game. I felt safe with him.

. . .

He told me many stories, as we traveled around town on the trolley. He pushed my wheelchair as we went to the ice cream shop and he had to wait to be served until a wave of people had past and the shop was empty. I couldn’t really tell why this was until we were sitting on a bench later, sipping our root beers, when Mr. Oti decided to tell me the only story of the day that held any real grit, and it was one that would stay with me for years to come.

“People like us,” He started. “We are different, and we always will be. At least, as long as the world is the way we know it.” He paused, looking out onto the pond where we sat, and he was quiet for so long that my ever-present curiosity took root once more.

“Is it lonely?” I blurted, before turning red and looking at the ground.

“Lonely?” He had a laugh in their voice that made me meet their eyes again. “Of course it is. People like us will always be lonely. We have to grow accustomed to being friends with ourselves. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the people out there who are ‘normal?’ They’re just as lonely as we are. The way I see it, we are all the same, and we can be afraid of the world or we can face it, head on, and try to be happy. When I decided not to be afraid anymore, I learned another thing. No matter how much the world has turned against you, there will always be people out there who are willing to love you. It’s those people who you gotta look for in the world.”

Mr. Oti brought a whole new perspective into my life. I had caught a tiny glimpse at what the world could be like outside of my tiny walls. But it wasn’t until my thirteenth year that I would meet the person who would break down those walls forever.

***

“You in here?” Armin creaked the door open, smiling when he saw Krista’s sleeping form lying on the potatoes. It had been several hours since she’d last made an appearance, and he’d managed to take care of putting everyone to bed without her, but he’d been curious about where she’d skulked off to.

He eased the book from her hands, before picking her up and carrying her to her bed downstairs. Then he sat heavily onto a comfy chair in the common area and tied back his hair, before starting from the beginning.

***

The heat of that year was extraordinary, even for New Orleans, and it was hard for the other old people, though not so much for me.

Levi owned the house now that the old owner, Keith Shadis had died, and I did what I could to help care for the guests and clean the house and generally try to keep up morale, but things were miserable.

Every Sunday there was a visiting day, where their families who didn’t care enough to let their older relatives live at home but cared enough to come and see them would bring food and picnic with their elders on the lawn of the great house, and some would stay for dinner later on.

I met him on a visiting day in July.

Of course, I didn’t know at the time just how important he would be to me, or the impact he would have on my life. All I knew as I sat in a rocking chair on the porch and stared at all the happy people on the lawn was that there was a boy, only a few years younger than me (only he actually looked his age) who was staring curiously up at me from his position at his mother’s side.

This had happened before, though only with children, and usually only in passing. Children are exceptionally good at reading people, you see, though often they do not let you know, and often adults do not believe them.

Usually these children would give me strange looks, as though they could almost tell what was so strange about the old man sitting on the porch, before they would give up and follow their mothers away.

This boy, however, was not giving up. He stared and stared, and made no attempts to hide his staring, despite his mother’s efforts to force him into politeness.

He had an undercut, and his hair was lighter on top, which was already a bit strange, not even taking into account the fact that he seemed to lack any kind of fundamental manners.

Eventually, as I knew he would, he left his family’s table and strode up to the porch, though he didn’t dare to climb it.

He met my gaze, and licked his lips, and I marveled at the life and freedom that oozed out of him with every moment. He was everything I wanted to be, and yet I wasn’t jealous. I was content to merely watch him.

“You’re different.” He said simply, cocking his head.

“Yes.” I replied, picking at my hands a bit. Strange, I didn’t usually get nervous when people talked to me.

“You’re not old.” He climbed the first step.

“No.”

“But you look old.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” With each word he climbed a step, until he was standing at eye level to me.

“I don’t know.” I was quite overtaken with how he spoke to me; like an equal, instead of as if to a baby, as some people treat the elderly, or with too much respect, as is also so often the case.

His eyes roved over me, taking in my appearance, and I did the same. It was not often that I got the opportunity to see other people my age.

“Are you scared?” I asked softly. I’m not really sure what made me ask this. Perhaps because I was scared. Scared he would walk away; scared I would be alone again so soon after finding someone to talk to.

“No. Why? Should I be?” The boy’s eyes snapped back to mine, and he frowned, as if seeing something for the first time.

“No…”

“Do you have any friends?” The boy’s brow crinkled cutely, and he licked his lips again.

I thought about that for a moment. I had Levi and Erwin, who were kind in their own way but were more like parents to me than friends. Then there were the other old people…some of them were interesting, like Nile or Pixis, but for the most part they were mentors, fleeting ships in the night who were never there long enough to be friends with.

I settled for the least embarrassing answer I could come up with. “I have a dog. Her name’s Daisy.”

As if to confirm this, my ancient golden retriever padded out from the house and plopped down at my feet, panting wetly. Erwin had brought her home for me one day in a fit of soft-heartedness, and we had become fast friends. It helped that she fit in perfectly with the other old souls at the home.

Jean’s eyes flicked from the dog to me, and he raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms in that way that children have that perfectly conveys how much they’re judging you.

“That doesn’t count. I guess I’ll be your friend, then. My name’s Jean Kirschtein.”

The boy held out a soft, unwrinkled hand and I took it in my own ruined one.

“Hi. I’m Marco. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You got a last name, Marco?”

“No.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yeah.”

That’s all it took. From then on, Jean came over as often as he could. He would tell me about what he had learned in school and I found myself laughing at his stories the way I never could with everyone else. We could be found reading under the tables or exploring outside, and while people thought our friendship was odd, they couldn’t quite pinpoint _why,_ and so they did and said nothing about it.

We couldn’t go very far because of my wheelchair, but we would go just far enough to feel like we were adventuring, and Jean would pick up all manner of disgusting objects and creatures to show me. I loved it. I had never realized before how much joy life could have.

Really, I had never realized how to live, and Jean showed me how.

. . .

I hadn’t realized how much I needed a friend until he came. Before Jean came, and even after, I had turned to reading to keep myself busy. Levi had taken it upon himself to teach me to read (he said he was just “paying it forward,” whatever that meant), and I had escaped into books and poetry ever since. There was so much truth in the written words that just couldn’t be conveyed by anything anyone had said to me.

When the other old people would turn to me in their tired daze and mutter about the happiness they used to know, I was struck with inspiration. I began to write down their stories. I had to use simple words, and my handwriting was atrocious, but I learned much faster than I had before.

When Jean came over I would share them with him until we grew bored, and then we would explore the old nooks of the house. Sometimes, if Levi let us, we would even go explore the safer parts of New Orleans together; with him pushing my wheelchair and me holding our things.

It was altogether a monumental improvement to what my life had been before. Jean had opened a door for me, and without him I’m sure I would have been stuck in a rut for much longer than I already had.

. . .

In my sixteenth year, I learned to walk. He was thirteen, and just reaching that point where he was awakening to everything about the world. He was also very angry, and would often show up with scrapes and bruises from his scuffles with the other boys, namely one named Eren, who had a tendency to call Jean names apparently. His mother had decided that he should be taking interests in normal childish things, rather than making friends with old people, but Erwin and Levi had managed to convince her otherwise by offering Jean a ‘job’ to teach him responsibility.

They knew without me telling them just how important Jean was to me.

So, every day after school, Jean would come over and wash windows, do dishes, and generally clean, while I sat in my wheelchair next to him in comfortable companionship, and sometimes help him out when I could.

I looked a little younger than I had before, I thought. I was beginning to see that what I had thought were age spots were actually freckles, and they were _everywhere._ I would have been self-conscious about them, I supposed, if they were the worst of my physical deformities, but as it was, I just wished I could walk.

One muggy afternoon, Jean was trying to get away with looking like he was working without actually accomplishing anything so as to avoid trouble with Levi when he suddenly turned to me with a puzzled expression on his face, letting the washcloth in his hand fall to the floor.

“Jean?” I asked, putting down the book I was holding.

“Why don’t you walk?” He replied, cocking his head to the side in puzzlement.

I let out a frustrated puff of air. “I don’t know. I’ve tried. I just…I just can’t.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“What?” I scoffed. “No it’s not. I just can’t do it. It’s impossible.”

“Please. Nothing’s impossible. You are sixteen years old and you’ve never taken a step on your own. You’ve never had a friend your own age aside from me. Come on, Marco. Try it for me? I’m sure you’ll do better with me here.”

I was tempted. Really, I was. But I wasn’t lying when I told Jean I had tried before. It had been an embarrassingly difficult several minutes at a time of me pushing myself out of my wheelchair, only to end up collapsing back into it.

My reasoning was simple. I just didn’t want him to see me that way. I couldn’t prevent him from seeing my decrepit body, but I had tried my best to keep him from seeing the true extent of my weakness.

I looked away and shook my head, trying to ignore the blush that spread across my cheeks.

Jean was having none of that. He bent over me, resting his hands on the arms of my wheelchair, a smirk on his acne-riddled face.

“Come on, Marco. If I can work, you can walk.”

With that, he grabbed my aged hands, and stepped backward, forcing me to lean forward until I was on the edge of my seat.

“No! I’m serious, Jean, I can’t do it.” I pulled against him, but he was stronger than I was, and he met my force and wouldn’t let go.

“Nope. I’m not letting go until you at least try.”

I knew he was serious, too. So I heaved a sigh, and nodded, squeezing his hands to betray my nervousness. I moved my feet from their rests to the ground one by one, and bit my lip in concentration. Letting Jean take most of my weight, I tried as hard as I could, pushing with my weak legs until tears were sprouting from my eyes…and I couldn’t do it. I fell back into the chair with a little whimper, and refused to lift my gaze from the ground.

“I told you, Jean. I can’t do it.”

He was silent until I looked up to see his eyes narrowed in concentration. I wasn’t really surprised by the absence of pity or anger in his gaze, but I was pleased, a little.

“No. One more time.”

“No, Jean. Just let me be.”

“I won’t. You are going to walk someday, Marco. Why not today? Why not let your life start today?”

I didn’t tell him that my life had started when I met him. He was right. I didn’t want to let my condition control me any more than I wanted it to be a part of my life at all.

“Ok. We’ll try it a little differently this time though. It was probably a little ambitious to let you stand almost completely on your own the first time.”

“What are you planning on doing, carrying me?” I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted when he smirked.

“Don’t tempt me. Alright, Here.” He leaned down, and lifted my arms above my head, before wrapping his own around my waist. He lifted slowly, and I clung to his bony preteen shoulders, letting him lift me almost completely without my help.

When we were upright, he began to step back a little, and I let out a little cry and gripped him harder, not wanting to let him slip away.

“Sh. Sh,” He whispered, gently prying my hands from his grip and letting me stand on my own two feet. “Sh. It’s alright, Marco. You can do it. I know you can.”

I let him pull away slightly, and tried to calm my racing heart and quiet my shame. He was seeing everything. He was seeing my weakness and my fear and he wasn’t running away, and it _terrified_ me.

“Marco. Stop panicking. You’re doing great. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you. I’m _right here._ ”

In that moment, I knew several things. One was that he was, inexplicably, telling the truth, and he was not going to leave me alone to fall back in my chair. The other I wouldn’t admit to myself for a long time.

I took a deep breath, and nodded into his shoulder, before letting him pull back ever so _excruciatingly_ slowly.

My legs shook, and sweat ran down my face in the summer heat, but I didn’t give up. I didn’t want to disappoint Jean—I didn’t want to disappoint myself.

So I didn’t. Right there, in the heart of New Orleans, I stood on my own for the first time, and laughed until I fell down again. But I couldn’t be stopped, and soon I was up again, and feeling ready to dance around like the other boys my age.

“I did it, Jean!”

He whooped, waving his cap around like he was eight years old again and trying to catch the moon.

“ _What is all the_ …fuss…about…?” Levi burst out onto the porch, only to stop in his tracks when he saw us.

“Hey Levi,” I grinned, waving at him, and Jean laughed out loud.

“ERWIN! COME DOWN HERE AND SEE WHAT MARCO’S DONE.” Levi was almost _smiling,_ and it was the strangest and most welcome sight I had seen in a long while.

Erwin was out in so little time that he must’ve thought I was dying, and his jaw dropped when he saw me.

“Well I’ll be,” He muttered, running a hand through his blond hair and getting flour everywhere.

“Our boy’s gone and grown up while we weren’t looking.”

I could feel a blush creeping up my weathered cheeks, and I giggled a bit when Erwin came up and ruffled my hair.

When we were alone again and Levi had stopped clucking like a mother hen and taken my wheelchair inside with him, I turned to Jean.

“This is all thanks to you, you know.”

Jean left his spot leaning against the porch pillar to come stand in front of me.

“You did this yourself, Marco. I just gave you a bit of a nudge in the right direction, that’s all. So don’t you dare give me the credit.”

I smiled, and didn’t contradict him. He was right. It was perhaps the first thing that I had ever done for myself. And while Jean was right in that I had been the one to stand up on my own two feet, he couldn’t know that I would always treasure how he had been the one to give me the confidence I needed.

***

            Krista adjusted her skirt in front of the mirror, fidgeting with this or that piece of cloth until she was confident about how everything lay.

            “You ready?” She called into the next room, before picking up her purse and stuffing it with tissues.

            “Yeah. I guess. Ready as I’ll ever be.” Armin appeared in the doorway, pulling at his tie and tucking his hair behind his ears.

            “How’s Mikasa doing?” Krista held out her arm, letting Armin take it and guide her out the door.

            “Not well. I asked her to move in here, but she insists on being independent. It doesn’t bother me. I can’t really see her sharing a space with so many people she doesn’t know.”

            “Yes, but still. It must be hard. She’s still your mom.”

            Armin gave her a pained smile as they got in the car, before turning his face away. He’d made sure the flag was at half-mast, as was tradition. “It is hard. But she’s strong enough.”

***

Now that I could walk, I found myself exploring even more than I had before, and now I could sometimes venture out on my own. On one such exploration, when I was down by the docks, watching the fishing boats and taking in the sea air, I met a man by the name of Mike Zacharius. He was a fishing boat captain, and one of his sailors had failed to show up for work, so he was looking for someone to take their job for the day. It was obvious that no one was willing to work for him, especially considering that he apparently never paid up at the end of the day, but I had nothing better to do and he was in need of some help, so I volunteered myself.

He looked at me through a long curtain of blond hair, and then looked back to the dock as if hoping that someone else would volunteer. When no one did, he shrugged and nodded for me to come aboard.

It was the hardest I had ever worked in my life, but it was also great, great fun. As I mopped and swilled and did all the nasty chores on the ship, I found joy in work, which was something I had never thought possible before.

Toward the end of the day, while Captain Mike and I were enjoying each other’s company in the wheelhouse, he asked me that all-important, quite unnerving question.

“Can you still get it up?” He took a swig of whatever happened to be in his flask and waited for my answer.

I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. I had grown up in a home full of old people, for God’s sake, and when he said that, the meaning of the question was completely lost on me, as was the jerking gesture he made with his close fist.

“Um.” I wracked my brain for an appropriate response, and settled for the one that made the most sense. “Every morning.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “You. You do it every morning?”

“I guess so.”

He stared at me for a moment, taking a long drag of his cigarette, before asking the next hard question. “When was the last time you had a woman?”

I chewed my lip and twisted my old hands. “I can’t say I have.”

“What…never?”

“Never.”

“You have lived on this earth for how many years, and you have never had a woman.”

I just shook my head at him and smiled a little. He whistled.

“Well that is just a damned crime. The saddest thing I ever heard, that’s what that is.”

Apparently it was sad enough for him to take me to a whorehouse that very night. No doubt Levi would be missing me, but I had come to that rebellious stage in my life where I had decided that if I was going to look like I was eighty, I might as well take the freedom that I supposedly had. I was a bit younger-looking than I had been before, and indeed I was quite proud of the small amount of muscle clinging to my aged arms and stomach, but I was still old enough to put off the prostitutes as they lined the stairway of the brothel, waiting to take their Johns up to the bedrooms above.

Mike found a girl right away, but for a moment, it seemed that I would not be able to try a woman that night at all, until a pretty girl with olive skin and curly brown hair took pity and wrapped an arm around my shoulders to guide me up the stairs.

Nerves were bubbling up in my belly, though I couldn’t really tell why; as I followed her into the perfumed room and watched her unwrap her shawl, all I felt was fear, and maybe a little excitement for the unknown.

“Well? Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?” She sat on the bed, crossing her arms in what I guessed was supposed to be an attractive pose, but I felt nothing still.

“Ah. Um. I suppose…” I started to unbutton my vest, ignoring the shaking in my gnarled fingers.

She placed her hand over mine to still my movement, and turned my face to hers. With a gentle smile, she pressed her lips to mine. I tried to respond, moving my lips awkwardly, but I felt…nothing. Nothing except a faintly sick sensation in the pit of my stomach.

The girl pulled back and tilted her head to the side, letting her curly hair fall away from her face. “You aren’t…oh.”

I looked at her, knitting my eyebrows together and praying that there wasn’t something else wrong with me; another sin to add to my list.

“Oh, honey, it’s alright. Come sit with me on the bed here; don’t be scared. I don’t bite unless you want me to.”

I made my way to the soft bed, abandoning my attempt to strip myself, and sat beside her, wiping at the sweat off my brow.

“You don’t… you don’t feel anything with me, do you?” She asked me like she already knew what I would say.

I shook my head jerkily, and pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.

“Sh, don’t worry about it. You aren’t the first I’ve met, and I suspect you won’t be the last. You can just sit in here with me until your friend’s done, and I won’t charge you, either. Well, not much, anyway. Not full price.”

“Uh, Ma’am?” I asked quietly, chewing my lip, “what’s the matter with me? Why can’t I—I mean, why don’t I—”

“Why can’t you get it up?” She asked, giggling a bit. “Don’t you know?”

I just looked at her and fought the urge to cry; her face morphed quickly as she looked at me, and I couldn’t stand the pity in her eyes.

“Well. All this time, and you never got to know yourself? Poor dear. Well, I can’t say for sure, but it seems to me that you lean the other way, so to speak.”

I was filled with confusion; what did she mean?

She cleared her throat. “You, uh, prefer the sword to the sheath?” She was trying to be delicate for my sake, I could tell. She didn’t seem the type who would usually have any qualms saying what needed to be said. “Oh, for God’s sake. You like dick, my friend. At least, that is my not-so-educated opinion.”

            Silence, awkward and loud, filled the room, as if a gun had just been fired. I didn’t know what to do with this information; I knew it was possible, after all, I had grown up with Levi and Erwin, but…

            The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It didn’t actually bother me that much, to my surprise. Despite growing up going to church occasionally when Levi would shuttle the old people there, I had grown up with people who strongly believed in love, and this was just a different type. And I secretly believed it didn’t matter either way. I would be alone, and I probably wouldn’t live long enough to not live alone. I didn’t hate anyone enough to force my handicap on them.

            The girl patted me on the back. “Despite what people might say, there’s nothing actually wrong with being the way you are.”

            I laughed a bit. “I know that. Don’t worry, I know. I just…hadn’t thought about it before. But I think you’re right. Thank you for being so kind to me.”

            She clasped my hands in hers, and squeezed. “It’s my job, dear. Now, I think we have waited for long enough, especially for someone your age. Even if your friend doubts you, I’ll vouch for you. Unless you’d like to stay longer.”

            I shook my head and stood, re-buttoning my vest. She fluffed her hair and pulled her breasts out a bit, before donning her shawl once more and holding the door open for me.

            Stepping down those stairs and past the prostitutes, I walked with a new perspective. Even if I hadn’t noticed before, and even though I was different in yet another way, I found that I was happy. I was discovering more about myself every day, and that was incredibly exciting.

            As I walked down the streets of New Orleans with a little jump in my step, breathing in the cool air and watching the people of the night in their jaunts around town, I remembered Mr. Oti’s words again, and hoped that he was right, and that there would always be someone there for me.

            After that night, I would go out on the tugboat often, loving the way it felt to ride the sea. And once, when Jean was actually staying at the home for the night with his grandfather, I decided to take him out with me. He was my best friend in the whole world, after all.

            I woke him up early on Sunday morning, and took him with me through the foggy streets to the dock, where we found Captain Mike passed out on his cot, as he was so apt to do.

            “Is he alright?” Jean asked from behind me.

            “He’s fine,” I said, turning to prod at Mike with some force. “Captain. Captain!”

            He snorted. “Hm-what? What the hell are you doing here, Marco?”

            “Can we take the boat out?”

            The captain blinked a bit, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Who is _that_?”

            “Well, this is my friend, Jean.”

            “Bloody Frenchman. Do you know what day it is, Marco?”

            “Sunday?”

            He scratched at his belly and draped his cap over his eyes. “And do you know what that means?”

            I shrugged.

            “It means that I am hung over, and that I also don’t have to work today.”

            “It would mean an awful lot to me, Captain.” I stared him down, trying to tap into the pity that people sometimes have for the elderly.

            “Oh Christ, quit looking at me like that. Fine.”

            In a few minutes, we were on our way. Jean had never been on a boat before, and he laughed into the wet morning air and tried to balance against the waves without holding on. I was not so brave. We watched the jellyfish in the water, and waved at the passing ships, and generally felt the joy that comes with being at sea.

He didn’t seem to mind that the fog blocked out any real view we might have; he just enjoyed being there…with me.

. . .

It was easier now that I could walk; we could go almost anywhere in the city. We would find the strangest shops, and eat the strangest foods, and sometimes Jean would get caught up in chatting with girls and I would pretend to be just someone from the old folks’ home that he was taking care of. The girls ate it up, and I was happy that Jean was happy.

For every moment like those, there were moments when Jean would look at me, and I could see that there was more to his gaze than there had been before. I could see the traces of confusion sometimes, and I was always able to tell when he had moments of inner conflict; about what I didn’t know exactly, but I had a feeling.

I didn’t know if it was right; what we were feeling. It seemed like it shouldn’t be, but there was no case before mine; nothing to reference to; nothing to show me right or wrong. So I tried to behave as if I were an ordinary old person, and I tried to not feel anything.

It worked occasionally.

***

“I am exhausted,” Armin muttered drunkenly, before collapsing onto his bed.

“But you made it home safely, and that’s the important thing.” Krista pulled his shoes off, rolling her eye sat his state. Were the situation any different, she would be angry. But he’d just lost his father, after all, and if ever a situation calls for large amounts of drinking, this was it.

“What am I going to do now?” He whined, pressing his face into the worn fabric of the quilt.

“I don’t know. Perhaps you should write a book.” She pulled his tie off for him, and helped him out of his coat, before pulling the covers back so he could wriggle fully into bed.

“About what? The man who aged backward? That wasn’t my story to tell, and you know that.”

“I never said you should write about Marco,” Krista said exasperatedly. “I just said you should write. Make your own adventure. It’s what your father would want. Maybe you should try dating.”

“No, no. I have no interest in that sort of thing.” He rolled heavily on his back, beckoning for Krista until she was perched on the edge of the bed. “I took care of my father for so long. That’s all I’ve done, my whole life, is take care of people. But I’m not sure I want to do it any longer. I’m just so _tired,_ Krista.”

She rubbed soothing circles on his arm, smoothing the hair back from his head and noticing tears spring from his red-rimmed eyes. “I know. I know. I think you need a change. But tonight’s not the night to be thinking about that sort of thing. Just sleep, and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

***

When it was announced that we would be joining the war, Jean didn’t come to visit me for almost a week. I knew why he was avoiding me, and I knew what he would say when he came. So when I heard a knocking at my bedroom door exactly eight days after the announcement, I shut my book and stood, preparing myself for the worst.

“Marco, I have something to tell you.” He entered my room quietly and calmly, which he almost never did.

I knew. Of course I knew. What else would he be coming to tell me? Certainly not what I wanted to hear. But I needed to hear the words from him myself, in order to know for certain.

“What is it?” I motioned for him to join me and sat off the bed, and I moved the needle off the record player that sat in the corner of the room. Now did not seem the best time for Louis Armstrong.

He sighed, and came to sit beside me in the silence of my old bedroom.

“Remember when we used to play in here as kids?” I said quietly, rubbing my hands together nervously.

“Yeah. I still remember how scared I was when Levi came and caught us reading at two in the morning that one time.”

I looked sideways to Jean. He had a faraway look in his eye as he gazed across years and into our dusty past. No use delaying anymore, I supposed.

“I know why you’re here, Jean.”

He turned to face me, a hard look suddenly replacing the softness. “Then you know I have to do it.”

“No. You don’t. You don’t _have_ to do anything.”

He stood, clenching and unclenching his smooth hands. He was always best at controlling his anger around me. “If I don’t contribute to the war effort, what will everyone think of me? What will they say? I’m not an important person, Marco, I never have been. This is my chance to make something of myself.”

“That is the exact wrong reason to join the war.” I spoke strongly, trying to force him to see reason. “Besides. You’re important to me,” I breathed, knowing it wouldn’t matter.

“You wouldn’t understand, Marco. You’ve always been so content to just _be._ I want to change the world! I want to make a difference in peoples’ lives!” His words stung; the idea that he thought I was content in my own skin was somehow intolerable.

I stood then, too, unable to stop myself. “And you think you can do that by becoming a _soldier_?! Jean, you are an _artist,_ for Christ’s sake, make _art!_ Propaganda is half a war anyway!”

He just scoffed, throwing up his hands. “I want to do more than that.”

“You can’t do more if you are _dead. “_ War does not determine who is right, only—”

“’Who is left.’ Yeah, I know that. I’ve heard it before.”

“Jean, this isn’t going to be a game. You could die—you probably _will die._ I can’t live with that!”

“Come on, Marco. This isn’t your life. If I were in Germany right now, I would probably be in a concentration camp. I’d have died years ago, and so would you. I have to do _something._ I cannot just sit here while this is happening. In any case, it’s not like you would have my blood on your hands if I died—”

“Oh yes I would. I would as surely as if you were my—” I stopped short; I had been about to say ‘lover,’ and _that_ just wouldn’t do, would it?

“Your what? Son? Brother? Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not. I’m not anything to you.” Jean’s tone was so bitter he almost spit the words at me, before turning away, as if he had mistakenly revealed too much of himself and desperately wanted to hide himself from me.

“That is a bold lie,” I said, so strongly that he turned. “You are everything to me.” I faltered after that, but pushed on. He needed to hear what I had to say. “That is why I cannot allow you to join this war, no matter how great the cause. It is selfish of me, I know. To keep you from something that is, perhaps worth dying for, but I won’t have it. I can’t give you up. I just can’t.” I’d be lying if I said there were no tears dotting my cheeks, but at least he knew how I felt. I knew what he meant. I knew how the anger filled him up for the crimes being done to people like us abroad, but I couldn't let him go.

I was looking at the ground, so I was taken completely by surprise when his hand cupped my chin, and pulled me in until he could lean forward properly and gently press his lips to mine.

It was my first kiss, not counting the prostitute, and a small rush of air escaped me. I couldn’t believe this was actually happening. After a moment though, it was all too real.

A million emotions ran through me like bullets; joy, shock, relief, fear, and anguish, because as much as I felt this too, I knew that I couldn’t force him to live in my life; to watch me grow young and to take care of me in his old age. He deserved better.

So I pulled away as the shock ebbed, and waited until he opened his eyes to shake my head gently.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I’m not right for you. You mean everything to me, but I’m not right for you.”

His face flashed from tenderness to betrayal to anger so quickly I barely registered the change, and he backed away from me. He was always so quick-tempered.

“I don’t believe you. If I meant everything to you, like you say, you wouldn’t reject me like this.” He grabbed his coat from the bed, and stumbled a bit on his way out the door.

“You won’t see me again. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. And you can’t stop me from joining the war.”

When the door slammed shut, as I knew it would, I stood quite still until the sun set. Then I went and sat in my rocking chair, and stared out into the lights of the city.

Life is about opportunities. Even the ones we miss.

Levi came to visit me the next morning; he sat on the edge of my bed and waited for me to join him.

“So he’s gone?”

“Yes.” It was hard to say out loud; if I was silent, perhaps it didn’t happen.

“But he won’t be enlisting?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know if he would or not. But I hoped that once he calmed down and actually thought about what I had said he would reconsider.

“Do you think you did the right thing?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t see me again. Do _you_ think I did the right thing?”

Levi rested a hand on my shoulder. “It’s hard to say in this type of situation. How do you feel?”

I stared at him.

“Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

“Well…I’m upset…no, I’m past upset. But I suppose…I’d rather he be alive and angry with me than dead in a foreign country.”

“Do you think the war is worth the risk?”

“I don’t know. Probably. That wasn’t a part of my decision. I was only concerned with Jean’s safety. Maybe that’s stupid. I don’t know.”

Levi shrugged. “I think you did the best you could. That’s all I’d ask of anyone.”

. . .

Jean hadn’t lied to me out of anger, like I had been hoping. He didn’t try to make contact. And since I no longer had him to talk to, my life was completely and totally different than it had been before. I was looking younger and younger, but my heart felt older than it ever had. Every day, many times a day, I would think of things I wanted to tell him; sometimes I would even turn and begin to speak before remembering that I had lost him; that I had pushed him away.

 _It was for his own good._ I told myself, over and over again. I had pushed him away to protect him, and he was safe from me and from war and from everything that I could possibly protect him from.

My conscience should have been clean.

It wasn’t, though, because life is never that easy. Instead, I felt a heavy burden of loss fall on me. Levi told me I was going through a grieving process, the same as if Jean and I had been together, instead of whatever we had been. This, more than anything, told me how much and how dearly I had loved him, and how much I loved him still.

I suspected that I would love him forever, but I knew that for the sake of my life, which I valued so much in everything, I should try to move on.

So I said goodbye to Levi and Erwin and the old man who had been struck by lightning no less than seven times, and I joined Captain Mike as a permanent fixture on his boat as his work took him on all sorts of adventures.

. . .

We traveled around Florida and up the Atlantic Seaboard, and as I worked my hair grew out and thickened and started to slowly turn a dark, dark brown, and my freckles grew more prominent than ever before. I wrote letters to Levi, and he kept up correspondence with me, telling me all about his exploits with Erwin as they kept up the old folk’s home and generally were happy together.

            While we were in Russia, I did meet someone. We were in a small hotel called the Winter Palace, and every night we would meet in the hotel lobby and share stories. His name was Bertholdt, and he was different from anyone I had ever met before.  He was in his forties, and very tall, and gentle and kind, and he barely spoke any English. His wife was an ambassador and spy, and she was everything he was not. She was sharp edges and short and hard, and he was…well. I discovered very quickly that I was falling in love with him, though not in the same way that I had loved Jean.

            This love was less permanent. The whole time we were meeting I felt the transience of our relationship. This should have made me sad but instead just made me savor the moments even more. For a few weeks, as we got to know each other, we didn’t broach the subject of touch, nor did we ever pretend that our relationship was anything more than two friends enjoying one another’s company in the wee hours of the morning.

            But one night, as we were tasting a bit of fine vodka, things changed.

            “His name was Reiner.” Bertholdt said softly, his accent lilting and smooth. “We met when we were sixteen. Our parents were doing business together; mine were in the fur business, and his were in the trapping business. They thought they could make a deal. Anyway. He…” He stopped, his accent growing thicker with every word. “He was everything. I hadn’t known, before then. But when I was with him, the world, how you say, opened up. Everything was, ah, wonderful with him. I loved him with every part of me. But, it was not meant to be. Not in this world, at least.”

            We sat in silence for a moment, and I reached out, draping my hand over his. This was the only way I could comfort him, though my situation was similar. Talking about Jean felt too recent, too close. So I just smiled sadly at him, and I knew that he could tell my intentions.

            “Annie was the one who saved me, actually. My parents caught us. We were only kissing, but it was enough. They would have…well, actually I do not know what they would have done. But Annie was our friend at the time, and she offered to do the only thing she could, and marry me. I do love her very much. Just…not in the way I should.”

            He lifted a few of his fingers to brush against mine. “Your hands are so course. Ah, may I?”

            I nodded, not actually knowing what he wanted to do and not really caring. He brought his hand up to brush against my cheek, and pulled me to him, and in the next moment, our lips were pressed together.

            This kiss was much different than the one I had shared with Jean. This one felt more private, probably because if we were caught, we had more to lose, with Bertholdt being married. Just as I began to reciprocate, the bell tolled midnight, and he pulled away, opening his eyes slowly.

            “I’m afraid I must get back.” He stood, and in another moment I was alone in the hotel, with only the ticking of the clocks to give me company.

            There was something freeing about the affair. We both knew we could never really be together, so we were actually more like friends, with a strong attraction to one another. I was still learning about love, which really meant that I loved too freely. We spent quite a lot of time together, mostly when his wife was gone and in the dark hours of the night. He told me I made him feel younger, and I said the same, though I really meant the opposite.

            “If we’re going to do this, you must never look at me during the day.” He said one night, as we were meandering down the freezing street. “And neither of us will ever say ‘I love you.’ Do you understand?”

            I nodded, eager to share this secret with him, and we rode the elevator up to my room in silence, the tension in the air palpable. I didn’t feel afraid, the way I had with the woman. I just felt…excited. And perhaps a bit nervous. It would be the first time I had ever slept with anyone, and I was caught up in the novelty of it. He was the second man to ever love me, and the first one I thought I could be with.

            Each time with Bertl felt new. It was so easy to be with him. We were very similar in temper, which made everything very simple. In the darkest time of night, we would lie together, watching snow fall outside as I would trace patterns in his skin. It was an honor to love him. But our love couldn’t last forever.

            One night, when I came down to meet him in the lobby, he didn’t show up. I knew immediately that something was off, because he was usually waiting for me, but I decided not to give up yet. I sat on the couch and waited…and waited. The clocks tick-tocked, and snow fell softly outside. I saw a small mouse scurry past the grand old couches. But he never came. I had never been in the position of waiting for someone who may not turn up.

            Eventually sleep overcame me, and when I woke the next morning, I knew it was over, and headed back to my room. As I entered the room, yawning, I stepped on a note, and read it with a sinking heart.

            ‘ _It was nice to meet you.’_

That’s all it said. But I found that I wasn’t angry. It had been nice to meet him. He had taught me how to love.

***

            “Krista, I think I know what I’m going to do.”

            “Really?” Krista tried to sound interested from where she stood in the kitchen, elbows deep in dishwater. “What?”

            “I’m going to go back to school. I want to be an editor. And my dad would have wanted me to follow my dreams. He never liked how I dropped out of school.”

            Armin sat at the dining room table, feet propped up and surrounded by papers. He chewed on the end of an eraser as he sifted through a course list.

            “I think that’s a great idea. You’ve always loved to read. It’s a natural fit.”

            “Mm.”

            “…Have you been reading the journal?” Krista asked.

            “Yes.” Armin spoke quietly. “Who knew, right?”

            “Well. I think we all knew.”

            “Yes. But we didn’t _know._ Not for sure.”

            “Well. We do now. And times are changing. They would have been happy to see that.”

***

            After Bertl, I tried to focus more on my work. The push and pull of the ocean, the mindlessness of everyday life. But the tugboat business just didn’t hold the same charm. We tugged the broken ships of war to port, but that was the extent of what we saw of war, and the extent of the job. And my interest in the tugboat business diminished daily. Eventually, in 1947, I said goodbye to Captain Mike and headed home. It had been six years since I had seen Jean.

New Orleans had remained mostly untouched by the war; it still held much the same charm for me as it did before, only now it held a touch of nostalgia, as I hadn’t seen it in so long.

“Marco. Marco oh my God.” When Levi saw me, he dropped his broom, and met me in the yard, which was enough of a statement to make me smile.

“Hey, Levi. Hey, Erwin!”

The big blond man strode out to meet us, and gathered us both in a monster hug.

“It’s good to see you too, Erwin. Levi, are those grey hairs I see?”

When we had situated ourselves around the kitchen table, and tea had been placed before each of us, and hellos had been said, and hugs shared, Levi said what had to be said.

“What brings you here, Marco? I mean, aside from our wonderful company?” It seemed that age only increased the amount of sarcasm he used.

“Well…” I thumbed my teacup, noting that Levi had kept the set in pristine condition over the years. “I saw the enough of the world for a while, and I wanted to come home. At least for a bit.”

“Well. You’re always welcome here. Though I doubt you’ll fit in as well anymore—you look so young!” Erwin smiled, and Levi clasped his hand on the table. They weren’t so good at hiding their relationship anymore, but I doubted anyone who noticed cared enough to say anything; after all, the only people to see were too old to do anything about it.

I moved my things back, into a different room from the one I had been in before, and home became home again. It’s a funny thing. You don’t realize how much you’ve changed; how much life has changed you, until you come back to your roots and see for yourself.

I could do more around the house now, which was probably good because Levi and Erwin were slowing down a bit, though they denied it when you asked.

Being home also gave me time to think about some things. As I walked New Orleans once more, now invigorated with a more youthful body that I hadn’t had before, I found myself wandering to all the places Jean and I used to visit. Sometimes I wouldn’t even think about it, I would just start walking, and end up at the old river hangout, or some such place. The more time I spent at home, the more I wondered where he was, and how he was, and just about him.

Eventually I came to grasp that I was still in love with him, despite my best efforts, and I decided to find him again, if only to see how he was. I even promised myself I wouldn’t talk to him. I would just look. But first I had to find him.

Levi and Erwin must have noticed my behavior change, because they sat me down one morning over coffee and spoke with me.

“Marco, what’s the matter? You’ve been acting strange lately.” Levi poured a dash of cream in my coffee, before sitting back and crossing his arms.

I shrugged, not knowing how to respond.

“It’s Jean, isn’t it?” Erwin surprised me; I never thought he had noticed us. I guess I should have known; he always saw more than he let on.

“Yes. Yeah, it is.”

“It always is.” Erwin raised his cup to his lips, and Levi clasped his hand across the table like they did so often now.

They were getting on in years; there were wrinkles that hadn’t been there before; traces of gray hair and spots of life that proved their existence. Levi even used a walker, much to his chagrin.

“We just want you to be happy, Marco. Whatever that takes. But be careful, alright? We don’t want you to get hurt. Sometimes you don’t have enough regard for yourself. Try not to be so selfless as to not see your own needs.”

“On the contrary. I believe I’ve been too selfish lately. But I’m older…or younger now, and I’ve learned a few things. I just want to see if Jean has as well. If he’s still the same person…if he’s still angry with me.”

They nodded, and that night, I paid a visit to Jean’s mother, and discovered that he was living as an artist in New York. I packed my bags that very night, and took the earliest train the next morning. Why delay the inevitable?

The journey to New York was made longer by my nerves. What if he still hated me? What if he wouldn’t speak with me? What if he had _forgotten_ me? What if he told me to leave? What if he _saw me_?

When I arrived in New York, and booked myself a room in a terrible hotel, I made my way to Jean’s gallery. I figured the best way to see how he was would be in a crowded room; I could make a quick getaway that way.

His art was every bit as beautiful as it had been when we were children; it was vibrant and full of life, and each painting told a story; though not every ending was happy.

The gallery was packed with people; he was just as successful as I knew he would be. And he was alive, and he had stayed out of the war. I hoped that wasn’t a decision he regretted. I hoped—

My thoughts quieted when I saw him. He was a fully-fledged adult now; he even had the scruff of stubble and the hint of laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

A smile spread across my mouth, and I took a step toward him…and stopped.

A slender hand hooked around his shoulders, and his face was pulled toward that of a beautiful young woman. She was tall and slight, and her brown hair fell across her face just enough to appear natural, but not messy.

When she pressed her lips to Jean’s cheek, I found myself backing away, with an awful ringing in my ears.

_You knew this was a possibility. You knew he probably moved on. You knew you knew you knew._

            The room was suddenly too hot; I made my way through the crowd, trying to breathe normally and not let the dizziness overtake me as I broke for the door.

            “Marco?”

            I stopped, and closed my eyes at his call. Oh, I had missed his voice.

            “Marco! Marco, is that you?”

            Turning slowly, I met his gaze and smiled wearily. “Hello, Jean.”

            “My God, it _is_ you!” He shoved his way through the rest of the crowd, and pulled me into a fierce hug.

            I closed my eyes and hugged him back, and the rest of the world faded away. No matter what happened next, at least he seemed happy to see me.

            He held on a bit longer than he should have, before pulling back and just staring at me.

            “You look…you look so young! My God, you’re perfect! I never realized you had so many freckles!”

            From behind him, the woman cleared her throat, and Jean jumped.

            “Oh! Marco, this is Sasha. Sasha, this is Marco. I…I knew him as a kid.”

            _I knew him as a kid._

            “Pleased to meet you,” The woman said, extending her hand.

            I took it, not wanting to be rude, but the buzzing in my ears hadn’t quite faded away.

            People were staring at us; Jean’s shouting had effectively drawn the attention of everyone there. Jean noticed too, and he clasped Sasha’s hand.

            “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.” He led us outside and up a flight of stairs on the side of the building, before letting us into what I assumed was his flat.

            It was a tiny, one bedroom apartment, with enough women’s clothing for me to safely assume that she was living with him. There were also canvases everywhere, and the smell of paint permeated the air.

            It had been a mistake to come here.

            Jean put on some coffee, and sat us all down on his slightly disgusting couch.

            “So, what brings you here, Marco?” Sasha said, while chewing rather loudly on some gum.

            “I…I heard about Jean’s gallery, and I wanted to come and see it.”

            Jean stared at me, and though he smiled, there was much in his eyes that we needed to discuss; much that couldn’t be said in front of Sasha. And I knew I wasn’t mistaken when I saw anger behind his façade of warmth and calm.

            “It’s been a long time. I’m surprised you heard about it.” His tone was tight enough that Sasha turned to him, brow creased.

            “Levi told me about it,” I lied. “You’re quite successful. I always knew you would be. Your work is beautiful.”

            Jean scoffed, and Sasha stood up abruptly.

            “Well, I think you two have things to say, and I don’t think you’ll say them while I’m here, so I’m just going to stay with my sister for tonight. Goodbye, Jean.”

            She leaned down and kissed the top of Jean’s head, before heading out the door and leaving us in silence.

            “She seems wonderful.” I said quietly, smiling a little.

            “Yeah, she is.” He returned my smile, but he was biting back the same words I was.

            “And, um,” I stalled, “I really do like the gallery. Your apartment is nice too-”

            “Oh, cut the bullshit.” Jean had let his demeanor fall completely to anger and confusion. “Why are you here, really? And how did you actually find out about the gallery?”

            I licked my lips. “I went to see your mother. I wanted to see you, Jean. I wanted…I wanted to see…”

            He waited, but I just trailed off hopelessly, and he leaned forward. “So you keep me waiting for seven _years,_ and then you just show up and expect me to, what? Be waiting for you? Did you change your mind? What are you _doing_ here?”

            “No! I didn’t think you would be just waiting for me—and I didn’t keep you waiting! _You_ left _me,_ remember?”

            He winced. “Yeah. But you were the one who pushed me out the door.”

            “I wasn’t pushing you out the door, Jean. I just didn’t think you deserved… I didn’t think we were right for each other. That didn’t mean I never wanted to see you again. That didn’t mean I wanted to just cut you out of my life completely.”

            “Then _why didn’t you follow me_?”

            I shrugged tiredly. “You said you never wanted to see me again. I just wanted you to be happy.”

            He slammed his hands down on the table, making me jump. “I never said I didn’t want to see you again. I said you _wouldn’t_ see me again. I just thought that’s what you wanted.”

            We had fought before, but this time, I wouldn’t be pushed around. “Don’t put this all on me. You didn’t come after me, either. All I said was that I wasn’t right for you. I’m not saying I was in the right, but you weren’t either, so don’t act like you were the righteous hero in this. You were weak, Jean. You were weak, and I was stupid.”

            We were both silent after that, wallowing in memories of a fight that seemed so useless and dry now that we were speaking.

            After a time, Jean met my eyes again. “You never really said. Why are you here now? Please be honest with me. I think I deserve that, at least.”

            “You’re right.” I nodded, plowing on with a burst of courage. “I’m here, because in those seven years, I discovered that I still thought about you every day. I still wanted to be with you, and I still had things I wanted to share with you. I wasn’t finished with us yet, and I came to see if you felt the same way.”

            He swallowed, and I tracked the way his Adam’s apple moved. “Well. I’m glad you’re here. Truly. And if I’m being honest too, I feel the same way. But things are different now. I’m working; I’m trying, I have a life here. I’m happy.” He stared me down, as if daring me to contradict him, and I stayed silent. After a moment of holding that glare, he faltered, looking away. “Or at least, as happy as I can be without you. But here’s the thing. I’m still in love with you, Marco.”

            My heart faltered, and I leaned back in my seat. _He still loves you. It’s not too late._

“I’m in love with you, but I don’t think I could be with you unless we were together. And I don’t mean as friends. It’s all or nothing. And I’m selfish and weak for that, but I’m not a kid anymore, and I won’t just abandon my life on a false hope that things will get better.”

            I nodded, chewing my lip a bit. He was right, of course. The girl didn’t deserve to suffer on our account. “Yeah. You have to be there for Sasha, I get it.”

            “What?” He furrowed his brow. The look added a few years to his face, and there were small lines there that hadn’t been before, but it in no way diminished his attraction.

            I averted my eyes. Was he really going to make me say it? “You know. You don’t want to break up with Sasha on a whim.”

            He didn’t respond, so I met his eyes. He was making a strange, pinched face. “What? Marco, I’m not with _Sasha._ ”

            “But…but you live with her?”

            “Yeah, and you lived with a bunch of old people your whole growing up; that doesn’t mean you were with them. We’re pretending to be siblings, to avoid the scandal.”

            Oh. _Oh._

            “So,” I swallowed. “You’re not with her?”

            “No. She’s like a sister to me, and I love her, but I’m not with her. I did have a relationship with a girl for a while, but it didn’t work out. We just weren’t meant to be. And things are changing. Some of my friends know about me, and none of them hate me for it. In some circles, it’s not such a crime as it used to be. Maybe someday, people like us will even be able to get _married._ ”

            “Wow. Ok then,” I said, twisting my hands. I didn’t—couldn’t—quite believe that one, but Jean had always been able to kindle hope inside me where I had thought it had died.

            “I tried to join the army, you know,” he said sheepishly.

            Well. I had no idea how to react to that one. I chose to wait, holding my breath to see what he would say. I had assumed that he hadn’t joined, but…

            “They wouldn’t take me. Turns out I have flat feet.” He had a smile in his eyes, and I laughed at him. I didn’t bother pretending that I wasn’t relieved to hear that he’d stayed out of the worst of it.

            “So.” Jean said, sliding onto his knees on the floor and coming to rest in between my legs, with his hands on my knees.

            I leaned forward, so our foreheads met. Breathing in his smell this way was so much more overwhelming than it had been just walking in the room. It made my head spin.

“Well, I have an idea. It’s probably a stupid idea, but I want to try it anyway. Kiss me. Kiss me, and see if you feel the same way. I know I will. If you do, and if you still want to move forward—together—I’ll take care of some things here and I’ll meet you in New Orleans in a week and we can go from there. If not, we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll try to get over you again. Do we have a deal?”

            I licked my lips, and nodded, eager to prove to him that my feelings were true, even after all this time. He tilted his head, and I tilted mine, and our lips met again, after so many years.

            This kiss was unlike the kisses I’d shared with Bertl, or my first kiss with Jean. I kept my eyes open initially, wanting to memorize every detail about his face, but when he ran his tongue across my lips, trying to inch his way inside, my eyelids fluttered shut on their own, and I parted my lips for him. He tasted like coffee and oranges and he smelled of paint, and that combined with his own smell and taste I decided right then was heaven to me.

            Our tongues met, and my hands went to his hair, and I had _never_ felt this way before, with anyone. It was as though my body had always been missing this, and had just never known it. I pulled him up, and he used my legs to lever himself to a standing position, keeping his back bent so we never broke our kiss. He straddled my legs, and I ran my hands across every inch of skin I could manage, and he ground his hips against mine and I saw stars and—

            He stopped, pulling away and wiping his spit from my mouth.

            “So?” He asked quietly, sliding off of me and onto the couch at my side.

            I was still trying to catch my breath, so I simply nodded.

            “I need to hear it, Marco. I’m not just going by body language for something like this.”

            “Yes. Oh my God, yes.”

            “Good. Go home, Marco. I have some shit to do.”

            Jean’s kiss kept me warm all the way on the train ride home, and as I waited for him in the old house. Erwin and Levi could both tell that something was up with me, but I think only Erwin could tell exactly what. I was distracted, unproductive, and Levi yelled at me no less than ten times. And I was happier than I had ever been.

            No less than a week later, there was a knocking at my bedroom door, just like when we were little.

            “Can I come in?” Jean’s voice was teasing; he knew what the answer would be—what the answer always would be.

            I sat on my bed, and my heart sped up at his words. He was in the room and locking the door behind him before I even said anything.

            “Yes. Oh yes pleas—mmpf!”

            He cut me off with a fierce, deep kiss, and he pushed me back until I was lying flat on the bed and he was laying on top of me; our chests pressed flush together. The warmth of his weight filled a space in my heart, and I wished to never be parted from it again.

            “So did—you sort—everything—out?” It is difficult, as it turns out, to speak while kissing.

            “Yes. Shut—up.” He peppered kisses all over my face, and wound our fingers together above my head.

            I gladly obeyed, choosing instead to push my hips up and into his. He groaned at the pressure, and I knew right then that we wouldn’t be stopping, not this time. Not after we had waited so long to see one another.

***

            “Have you told Mikasa yet?”

            “Told her this morning.” Armin pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighed. “She’s happy for me.”

            “You knew she would be. Mrs. Hange I swear if you don’t quiet down in there I will—”

            A small explosion interrupted Krista’s speech, and she groaned, before getting to her feet.

            “I’d better take care of that. You know how she gets.”

            “Yeah. Hey Krista?”

            She stopped with her hand on the doorframe. “Hmm?”

            “I think…I think I might be moving out. I’d like to live closer to campus.”

            There was an empty silence for a moment, before Krista turned to face him, happy tears in her eyes. “Oh, Armin. I’m so happy for you.”

            “Really?” Relief was plain in his voice. “And Ymir can come and live here! I mean, she’s not great with the old people, but at least you’d be together—”

            “Don’t you worry about that. Just get out of here. Make your own life.”

***

Jean asked me to live with him in New York. Naturally, I said yes, but it meant saying goodbye to my family again. So he went back to work and I stayed behind for another week to say my goodbyes. While I was doing that, life intervened again, setting more into motion that I could never have planned for.

I was coming home from the grocery store when Levi slammed the screen door open and called for me.

“There’s someone here to see you.” He snapped. His eyes were sharp, and I knew that whoever this mysterious someone was, Levi wasn’t happy to see them.

I entered the living room slowly, peeping around the wall to see who was there. Sitting on our couch was a man, an old man with grey hair and freckles peppering his face, and he sat with a yellow folder in his lap and tapped his foot.

“Hello?” I said cautiously, entering the room. He turned to face me, and I recognized him. He had showed up at the house before, for Visiting Day. I had never spoken to him before, but I knew his face.

“Marco?” He smiled pleadingly at me, and I came further into the room, hoping somehow that by sitting with him I would help to dissolve the tension in the room.

“You’re here to see me, sir?” I sat on the couch opposite him, and folded my hands in my lap.

“Yes. This…this is for you.” He held out the folder, and I took it hesitantly, wondering what to do with it. “Well go on, read it.”

I opened the folder and took in its contents. Sitting on top was a faded white paper filled with printed lettering and almost unreadable handwriting. But it didn’t take a lot of searching to see what it was.

“Is this,” I started, scanning the paper furiously. “Is this my birth certificate?”

He nodded, pressing his lips together.

“Why do _you_ have it?” I read through the paper again. My last name was apparently ‘Bodt.’

The man took a deep breath, as if preparing to unleash something terrible. “In 1920, your mother died giving birth to you. She asked me to keep you safe with her last breath, but I was a coward. Still am a coward. I took you out, and I tried to—it doesn’t matter. I took you here, and I put you on the doorstep, and I left you, and I’m so so sorry.”

I tried to process this, but it was too much. “Why are you telling me this _now_?”

“I’m dying, you see.” He looked away.

“Oh,” My words caught in my throat, but I had to say something. “I’m very sorry.”

“Yes, well. I actually have quite a lot of money. I was in the button business. Bodt’s Buttons, there isn’t a button we don’t make. Anyway, the war was kind to the button industry, and now I’m dying and I want to leave my money to you.” He spoke so casually, but the things he said bore weight to them that didn’t match his tone of voice, almost as if he felt awkward speaking with me.

“But you don’t even know me.”

“I watched you grow up, from afar. I’m very sorry that I left you here, but these people did a better job of raising you than I ever could have, and I’m grateful for that. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve seen the person you’ve become, and I want you to have the money.”

I stared long and hard at him. “I don’t consider you my father.”

“I understand that. I don’t expect you to. I don’t expect you to forgive me, either. I just want to do right by this one last thing.”

His actions made me angry. He really was a coward. He had left me alone when it counted, and now that he was on his way out he wanted to ‘set things right.’ As if he could undo years of guilt by giving away money. But on the other hand, who was I to deny him his last request?

“Alright. If it’s really what you want. At least buy me a drink sometime.” I stood, and walked out to the front hall, clearly ending the conversation.

“I’d love to.” He heaved himself up and brushed off his old black suit, and hobbled out of the house and fading into the streets of New Orleans.

“Ridiculous.” Levi materialized from one of his hiding places and sat heavily on the couch. “As if he could take my place in two minutes. He had no right to come here and talk to you.”

I came and sat beside him, smiling a bit. “It doesn’t matter. You’re my father. Nothing could change that.”

Levi looked at me and for a moment I thought he would cry, but he just ruffled my hair and pinched my cheek before heaving himself up. “I have work to do. I’m too old to be running a nursing home. I should be an inmate here.”

“It’s not a prison!” I called after him.

. . .

            My father made good on his offer. He took me out to dinner, and tried awkwardly to get to know me, and I let him. And I found that, despite myself, I forgave him. That didn’t mean I forgot what he did, and I never thought of him as family, but I couldn’t hold the things he’d done in my heart. There was too much else in there, taking up space, and I had no real choice but to let what he had done go, or let it destroy me.

            For the first time in years, I had Jean to talk to again. He was commuting now, because neither of us wanted him to lose his job in New York and I couldn’t join him; not with my dying father suddenly in the picture. The long train rides and expense meant I could only see him on the weekends, and that was pooling our money. But Levi and Erwin were getting older, and now I had my father’s last wishes to honor. I went over these details so many times when Jean came to visit, usually after we were spent and lying on the bed together.

            “Well, you know what I think.” Jean said quietly, brushing his fingers up and down my spine gently and reminding me of times past long ago, in another life, with another person.

            “I just want us to be happy. Is that so much to ask?” The New Orleans heat was letting up as we approached winter, making the bed and cuddling much more comfortable as time went on.

            “You have to leave your parents sometime. And you don’t owe Mr. Bodt anything. He didn’t give you anything growing up, and he doesn’t deserve your life now.”

            “Yes, but what about Levi? What about Erwin? I don’t want to lose time with them. I don’t want to miss out on being with them, after I spent so long away.”

            Jean nuzzled my hair and I shivered, pressing my nose to his naked chest. “I think they’d understand if you left. And I think you have to decide for yourself what generation you want to be a part of. But I understand how you feel. They’ve always accepted you for who you are, and they love you.”

            “Yes, but so do you.” I muttered.

            He pushed me up so I was bracing myself against his chest and cupped my face with his hands. “Look. Life is all about choices, right? You choose what to have for breakfast, what to wear. You choose whether to apply for this job, whether to enlist in the army. You choose whether to take advantage of people’s weakness, or to take care of them. You choose whether to be kind or cruel; whether to stand up for what you believe in or stay hidden and safe. You’ve always been good at making those choices, even when I wasn’t. But you’re stuck in this limbo right now, and it isn’t healthy. Make a decision. I’ll follow you wherever you choose to go. But you can’t keep living your life neither here nor there, right or wrong. Just choose, ok?”

            I licked my lips, and sighed, but before I could respond the phone rang. It seemed that Death had come for my father, as he had predicted and prepared for.

            “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.” Jean knew the moment I put the phone down what had happened, and I kissed him gratefully before throwing on some clothes and heading out the door.

            The funeral was held the following week. I didn’t know anyone there, of course, but they all seemed to know who I was, and they told me how sorry they were for my loss. I tried not to feel guilty about my lack of feeling. I was sad for his death, but I hadn’t known him, not really. The things I did know did nothing to boost my opinion of him.

            It didn’t help my inner struggle that I now had an enormous amount of money that I had no idea what to do with. I took no responsibility for the company, but let it continue to run as it had, with a board of directors that had been handling things since my father had retired.

            And now the only decision I had left to make was regarding Levi and Erwin.

            “You shouldn’t live here anymore,” Erwin said, when I brought it up. Levi glared at him from across the kitchen table, where they sat, but he just shrugged. “He needs to have his own life. He needs to live. I know you don’t want him to stay here just for us. I certainly don’t.”

            Levi sighed, before patting my hand with his withered one. “Well, when he puts it that way, I guess there’s no arguing with him, the bastard. Go on, then. Make a life for yourself. Go live with that lover of yours and quit bothering the elderly.”

            I hugged them both, and some tears were shed despite my best efforts, but Jean was there again to hold me, and when we decided to take a year off and go sailing with my father’s sailboat, I felt my worries start to ebb. I had discovered something peaceful in knowing the futility of life, and decided that the actual point of the thing was just to try and love as much as you could, and to try and experience as many things as you could. This mantra saw me through many an angry cab driver and many an unrecognizable dish in a foreign place.

            When we got sick of civilization we always had the boat, which we would seek refuge from the world together in, and ask the most important questions, such as ‘what the hell did you do with the peanut butter’ or ‘who drank the last of the whiskey?’

. . .

            Even out in the still and soft life of the ocean, troubles managed to reach us. We did not want for money, or company, or food. Indeed, we had what anyone could possibly need to be ‘happy.’ And perhaps, according to some, we should have been satisfied with what he had… and I can’t deny, I had achieved what I wanted. I was with Jean, I had done what I thought to be morally right by my father, and I was happy. But Jean had never been satisfied with ‘good enough,’ and I could feel his unease in every taught movement of his tanned muscles in the sun.

“What’s the matter, Jean?” I asked softly, crossing my arms and leaning my head against his back. He tensed for a moment, before sighing roughly and put down the rope he was working with to relax back into my touch.

We stayed still for a few moments, but I could feel him caving until he finally turned to face me, and I was shocked by the tears in his eyes. The Jean I knew never cried.

“I love you, Marco.” He said sharply, clearing the gruffness from his voice.

“I love you too. Is that what’s been bothering you? Do I not say it enough?” I cupped his face, rubbing at the tears on his cheeks and kissing his nose.

“No!” He made a small frustrated sound in the back of his throat and walked a few feet away, throwing up his hands. “What’s been bothering me is that we can never be together, not in the way that counts to everyone out there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, but I knew the answer already, and it hurt my heart to know it had been bothering him too. He’d always cared more about what people thought than I had.

“I mean marriage! Adoption! Going out for breakfast together on Sunday mornings and not worrying about what people think!” He rubbed his face, and I reached out a hand, only to let it drop.

I didn’t know how to comfort him here. There was no answer that I could give him.

“I have loved you more than anyone has a right to love. I don’t deserve you, but I have you. And the world can never know that I have you. I love you so much, and it’s actually a _crime_. It’s not _fair,_ and I may sound like a child for saying it, but it’s true. We should have every right to be together as everyone else in our country. I can vote, and buy alcohol, and drive, and have children with a woman. I can own land, and I have more rights than women. I had friends fucking _die_ for this cesspool of a country, but I can’t _get married?_

“What _bothers_ me is that of all the things to make people feel guilty about, we make them hate themselves over _love?_ Not greed, or lies, or corruption or stealing or cheating or hatred or bullying or anything else, but _love?_

“Did you read the paper the other day?” It seemed that Jean was getting to his real point. “Homosexuals will not receive restitution for their experiences in the camps. The way they’ve been treated isn’t even considered to be a war crime, because their very existence is against the law. And no one is _talking about this?”_ He stopped, suddenly too overcome to continue.

I watched as my lover shook with sobs—the only tears I had seen him shed since we were children, and my heart was broken. I pulled his head forward until his face was pressed against my chest, and I rubbed circles into his back as he trembled. I pressed my face into his hair and sighed, wishing I had the words to make this better. A few tears of my own seeped into his dirty blond bangs.

“But we have each other.” I said quietly, squeezing him tightly. “We are together, and we are safe here. No one is trying to kill us out here, and my parents know about us, and that’s more than can be said for many people in this country. And I love you, and you love me, and nobody can ever take that away from us.”

“That’s not good enough,” he whispered, before lifting his head to fiercely kiss my lips. “It’s not good enough as long as I have to worry about your safety.”

I shook my head. “You’ll give yourself premature wrinkles if you do that.”

“Don’t remind me.” He scowled.

We wound our fingers together, and tried to comfort ourselves in knowing that we were not alone, even if we were small. But in my deepest heart, I knew that Jean spoke the truth. It wasn’t good enough. And I did worry, not only for him but for Levi and Erwin. The world wasn’t ready for us yet.

. . .

In 1950, we went back to New Orleans. The city had changed a little, but we made our way to the old house pretty easily. It was just as I remembered it, right down to the flag at half mast, meaning one of the old people had probably passed on. As we stepped up the creaking stairs to the front porch, I saw Levi’s walker by the front door, which was puzzling. Maybe he’d been trying to walk without it again, the stubborn old man.

“Levi! Erwin!” I called out as we entered the house. The air was still and hot inside, and there wasn’t a soul to be found.

Jean set down our things, and checked the rooms of the downstairs, searching for my parents.

“Levi?” I opened the door to the basement stairs, but heard nothing but my own echo from downstairs.

“Marco?” A voice from the second floor brought me back to the main room.

“Oh, Mrs. Hilda. Do you know where Levi is? Where is everyone?”

The old woman clenched at the banister with weak hands, and the pity in her eyes stopped my heart. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry, but they’re all at the funeral. Levi’s passed on.”

***

“I’s weird to think about, isn’t it?” Krista said as she helped Armin lug his bags to the taxi. “Levi and Erwin lived here for so long, and then it was like they were never there in the first place.”

“No. Their things are still everywhere. Levi’s old record player is still upstairs. Erwin’s flag is framed downstairs. We still use some of their kitchen stuff. They were here.”

“Yup.” Ymir appeared at Krista’s side, taking the bag she’d been carrying without a thought. “It’s just been a bunch of gays running this house forever. I wonder what that old governor who first owned the place would have thought of all this.”

“I think we probably don’t want to know.”

“Well. That’s the last of it.” Armin dusted his hands off as the taxi driver slammed the trunk shut.

“See you later, you little shit.” Ymir pulled him into a chokehold, ruffling his hair a bit before releasing him.

He swatted at her hands good naturedly, before turning to Krista.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, sniffing a bit.

“I’ll miss you too. But I’ll come and visit at least once a week.” Armin pulled her in for a hug, and she clung to him tightly.

“Oi! Lovebirds! Where is my applesauce?” Hange called from the second story window.

They pulled apart, laughing a bit. Krista wiped the last of her tears away.

“Alright. I’ll see you next week.”

Krista pressed close to Ymir as his taxi drove away.

***

Levi died on a Wednesday. When we arrived at the funeral, which we had by some miracle not missed, we took our places next to Erwin at the front of the church. He stood, as proud and stoic as ever, with not a tear to be seen. But when he turned to greet us as the choir sang, I could see the unchecked pain in his eyes, and he looked paler than usual.

I squeezed his hand, and stood next to him, hoping to lend him some strength, and we sat through several hours of formality that Levi would never have stood for, if he’d had a say. But funerals aren’t for the deceased. He looked so different, lying in that casket. All the stories I’d ever read made it seem like they just looked like they were sleeping, but he didn’t, exactly. He looked more peaceful than he ever had, all the lines in his face relaxed to a point of strangeness. He didn’t look like himself; and though someone had kindly shut his eyes, they’d also put him in a dusty suit that he would never have worn and combed his hair in a way he never did.

As the attendees came up to greet us one by one, and apologize for our loss, and to tell us what a kind and loving person Levi was, I just wanted to leave. None of these people were telling the truth. I’m sure they all loved him, or at least liked him and knew him enough to show up to his funeral, but they were being too nice about him, too careful. I understood their need to respect the dead, but their fear and quietness was so unlike the person I had known that I wanted to scream.

At the end of it, when we were the last ones in the church and I had shed more tears than I would have liked to in public, I finally got to speak with Erwin.

“Are you going to be alright?” It made me wince to know that I was speaking in the same too-polite tone that those blank faces had, but I found myself floundering for words. Erwin had known Levi for most of his life, and they had been together for longer than anyone who knew could remember. It had seemed like they were made for each other.

He sighed through his nose, closing his eyes and smiling a little. “No. The pain is unbearable. But at least this time we were prepared.”

I frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” He gently placed his hand over Levi’s in the casket, fitting their withered joints together one last time. “He was an insufferable, stubborn, cranky old man.”

I felt a knot grow in my throat again, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears. “He loved you too. I’ll miss him more than I can say.”

“Yes, well. It won’t be long for me now.”

Erwin patted his hand, before straightening his back and turning away from the casket. He walked calmly out of the church, and he didn’t look back. It took me far longer to gather the courage to do so.

 As a ‘close family friend,’ Erwin didn’t get to make any decisions about where Levi would be buried, but seeing as I was his adopted son, I did, and I told Erwin to just pick a spot. True to his word, as always, Erwin died only a few weeks later, and we buried him right next to Levi, despite the way people talked. They didn’t deserve to be separated by rumors, after everything.

. . .

In order to make a life for ourselves, we sold my father’s old house. I didn’t keep any of the pictures, or the furniture, or anything, really. I had no memories in the place, and I didn’t want to try and create false ones.

We bought a duplex. We didn’t have a stick of furniture, and we lived on a mattress in the living room. It was wonderful. To the world, we were just two bachelors pooling our funds to share a space to live, and we had to bring home female friends who knew the truth every once in a while to further prove the lie, but to each other, we were honest, and that was the important thing.

Jean had maybe one or two wrinkles (though he seemed to see many more than I did), and they affected him greatly. He hated the idea of getting older, and wanted to fight it as much as possible. But sometimes it just wasn’t enough, and when I caught him at the gym, staring at the way a young man effortlessly ran laps around him, it was the last straw. We went out to watch the sunset at the docks, and I was just there for him. He took a few moments, letting the fishy ocean smell clear his head, and then he turned to face me.

“I will never lose myself in pity again,” He said plainly, and I believed him.

He had never been good at wallowing, which was something I admired greatly in him. So he found an empty space in a good part of town and opened up a high end art studio. He worked with the city and taught classes to small children, and he came to realize that none of us are ever perfect forever.

. . .

We were out to dinner. Usually no one bothered us, especially when we dressed nicely. We appeared to be simply two men out for a business meeting. This time, however, we must not have been careful enough. One too many brief touches, or perhaps a lingering look.

“If I hear you sing ‘Getting to Know You’ one more time,” Jean threatened, reaching across the table to steal a bite of my food.

I laughed, before humming the tune into my glass. We’d just gone to see the musical the week before, and I couldn’t get the song out of my head. It had been one of my favorites.

We’d only finished the first course when our server appeared at our table, a sour look on his face.

“I’m _very_ sorry, sirs, but there has been a complaint. I must ask you to leave immediately.”

I was stunned. I knew what must be the reason; I knew and I was still floored by the fact that someone had spotted us and cared enough to be cruel.

“What do you mean? We haven’t even finished. We haven’t paid!” Jean’s voice rose, incredulity punctuating every word he spoke.

The other guests were starting to stare, and I was humiliated as I heard each conversation fade to silence, one by one.

“Do I need to fetch someone? Please, sirs. You must leave.”

Jean stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over. “No! You haven’t given me any reason—”

“Jean.” I stood too, smoothing a hand down his back. People weren’t even pretending not to stare any longer, but openly gaping, some with outright hatred in their eyes. One man in particular seemed to be slowly reaching for the dark shine of what could have been a gun in his coat. “Jean, let’s go. We don’t want to be here anyway.”

He looked at me, and through his angry haze he could see the way I was pleading with him. The fight left him then, so he was just a slouching, broken man with flaming red ears.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The drive home that night was silent. I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t see past the thin film of tears that threatened to spill over.

We had experienced small things before. Jean had even been openly attacked by idiots in the street when he’d been in college. But never like this. Never had we been shunned by intelligent, supposedly high class people, with no one in a crowded room to speak up for us. Never had I been afraid that someone was following us home, or that someone would report us to the authorities. Never had I felt this way.

So, when we lay down to sleep that night, I decided to leave. It was for the best. I had to protect Jean. He would move on. He’d done it before. He would understand. He’d have to.

So, once I was sure he was asleep, I stood silently. I went into our closet (we’d since moved an actual bed into our actual bedroom) and changed, hastily stuffing some clothes into a bag. I placed all of the money I had onto the nightstand (I would send him the rest when I went to the bank), and was heading for the door when I noticed the glint of Jean’s open eyes in the moonlight.

“What are you doing?” His voice was flat, like he didn’t want to hear the answer.

I closed my eyes for a moment, before continuing toward the door.

“Damn it, Marco!” His voice rose, sounding a bit hysteric. He knew what was happening. “You can’t just do this to me!”

His words held me in place, but I didn’t face him. I didn’t want to prolong this but I had never been able to resist his cries.

“Marco, turn around. Turn around and look at me and tell me why you’re doing this. You don’t get to just walk away like this. Talk to me!”

I swallowed drily, and turned to face him, not bothering to hide the exhaustion from my eyes, nor the redness from my tears.

He stood and came to me in the darkness, searching desperately to see some reasoning for my betrayal.

“Please…” He whispered, and stepped closer.

I jerked back instinctively, but stopped when I saw the hurt on his face.

Opening my mouth, I tried to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come.

“I’m so sorry, Jean.” Finally. It wasn’t much, but it was better than silence.

“What the hell are you sorry for? You haven’t done anything yet…but you can’t leave, Marco. You can’t possibly be serious about leaving. You just can’t.” He reached for me but stopped, seemingly trying to give me space.

I felt the tears spill over against my will, and I choked on them, stepping forward and into Jean’s arms. I nestled my face in the crook of his neck and inhaled his scent like I would never get to smell it again. My bag thudded to the floor.

“Jean. Jean _Jean_ I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. From the very beginning. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess when we were kids. I’m sorry I took so long to figure myself out. I’m sorry that I’m me! I’m sorry that you have to deal with this because it’s not fair to you! You… you deserve so much better than me. You deserve so much better than to have to swaddle me in diapers as you’re getting older. You deserve someone who will grow old with you. And you deserve a girl. I c-can’t let what happened tonight happen again. Did you s-see that man with the g-gun? God Jean I thought he would—”

I was openly sobbing then, and it worried me that Jean wasn’t moving, or speaking, until he pushed me back. Not hard; just enough so I was forced to meet his eyes.

“Marco. Why didn’t you tell me that you were feeling this way before?”

“I…I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Jesus, Marco, I’m not that breakable. You have to trust me. That’s what I’m _here_ for!” He pulled me so close that every point of our bodies was pressed together, and wove his hands through my hair, never once leaving my gaze.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I stuttered, allowing the contact but not reciprocating.

“What the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m keeping you here. You aren’t leaving, I hope you’ve figured that out by now. Not ever.”

“But Jean, I can’t burden you with the responsibility of me—”

“Oh, shut _up_. I am done hearing this from you. Don’t you think I’ve thought this through? I know what I’m going to have to do in my old age, when you’re just a baby. I know how hard it’s going to be when I have to pretend you’re my nephew, or my kid, or grandkid, or whatever, just so they don’t arrest me. _I know._ You don’t have to do this alone. That’s why I’m here. You’re all I have. We have to be there for each other, because in the end, it’s only going to be us. Why would you leave? So we have less time together? Less time to be happy together? Less time to do things that normal human beings do? That is the cowardly way out, and I will not allow it. I love you, and I’m going to be here for you until the very end, no matter what happens or what you do. Loving you is worth everything to me. I’ve come to terms with our future.”

I stared at him, trying to process what he had told me.

“Besides,” he said, grinning. “You dealt with my angry ass as a teenager, and you can’t handle a few stares from some assholes at a restaurant?”

With that, the tears spilled over again, but they were different this time. I laughed as I pulled his face to mine, and peppered his skin with kisses, probably getting tears all over his face.

“I love you, Jean. I’m sorry. I’ll stay. I’ll stay, I promise. I’ll never do this to you again.”

Jean laughed, and stilled my head with his hands so he could gently bring our lips together. “You’d better. I think I’d have a heart attack if you left again.”

He took my hand and led me to the bed, and as he pushed me into it, his eyes took on a fierce possessiveness that I had only seen a few times before.

“I love you, Marco. I always will. You’re it for me, baby.”

I reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, pressing my mouth to his skin and trying to feel as much of him as I possibly could.

His life now felt more precious to me than ever, and I felt so stupid for having ever wanted to leave him.

“Stop thinking.” Jean growled, biting at my neck and drawing a gasp out of me.

He was right. We couldn’t really protect each other from the real world. We could try, but something would always get to us. The most we could do was be there for each other; be there to lick each other’s wounds.

***

“Do you like it?”

“What do you mean?” Armin stepped out from where he was cooking dinner, briefly making eye contact with Mikasa.

“I mean, are you happier now, being an editor, than you were as a caretaker?” She pushed her graying hair out of her face, and fiddled with the fraying ends of her scarf.

“I don’t know if I would say ‘happier.’ I definitely feel freer. I feel like I’m finally living my life, instead of someone else’s.” Armin hummed the tune of ‘Getting to Know You’ a little as he worked. “Where’s your paprika?’

“Third from the right, bottom shelf.” Mikasa fingered the edges of the journal. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Sorry that you had to take care of your father. Sorry you have to take care of me. I’m sorry you can’t be as free as you would like.”

The pleasant sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen ceased altogether, and in a moment Armin was in the living room, kneeling at Mikasa’s feet.

“I don’t regret _anything._ ” He growled, squeezing her hands. “I’m so glad I got to take care of Dad. So glad I have the time to be there for you.”

She searched his eyes for any signs of a lie, and when she found none, she relaxed a little. “He would have been so proud of you.”

“I know. I know.”

***

Age was harder for Jean, but he wasn’t alone in his struggles. Obviously it was more difficult for him physically, since I was getting younger by the day, but mentally, too. I had grown up around age, spent my first years in a confused state of being told by almost everyone that I was old and infirm and about to die, so I knew. I knew the futility of fighting it, and the comfort of small things. What was difficult for me was watching as our friends had children. When we went to visit them for their baby showers, or to help them throw parties for their children’s birthday parties, I always felt a hollowness in my heart. But no one would let two men adopt a child together. Even if they did, I could never do that to a child; thrust my problems onto them and force Jean to raise the both of us.

Jean always saw the longing in my eyes, and he knew the sadness of my heart. And he did his best to comfort me. In the slow peacefulness of the nights, he would hold me close and we would count together all the good things we had. Our house, our cars, decent incomes. And we would always finish with each other. Some nights we had more things to be grateful for than others, but the number was always high enough to lift my spirits. And I worked with children through the church, helping with youth groups, and trying to fill in the holes that other parents left in their children’s parenting.

Jean had more wrinkles every day, and every day, I woke up with less.

. . .

We were seeing a movie.

I don’t remember what movie it was, or why we had bothered to see it in the first place. I knew that with every passing year, there seemed to me more people like us, out together on dates and even brave enough to attend the theater together, and with every passing year there were fewer stares for people like us. But not for us.

As we were leaving the film, laughing about whatever had happened and about how so and so had ended up with what’s-her-name, we were stopped by a young man practically in tears.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had to say something. My father passed away recently, and I just wish that I’d had such a healthy relationship with him. Seeing you two just made me so happy.” He squeezed my arm before waving and heading off.

I felt a boiling energy in my stomach, and turned warily to look at Jean. But to my surprise, he had a smile on his face. Upon seeing my stricken expression, he just burst out laughing.

“It had to happen sometime!” He crowed, before dragging me off to the car.

Sometimes he took the world as it was, like that day at the movies. Other times, he was so put out by the words of others he wouldn’t speak to me for several hours. But he had come to terms with his growing older, and with mine, and he had to get over himself eventually.

. . .

Years and years passed, so quickly they seemed to fly by. Sometimes when we were out together girls would come up to me and try to ask me on dates with them. Sometimes even other men did the same. It was something I’d never experienced before in my life, and most of the time Jean just laughed at me, but I could see that he felt some jealousy. After all, he’d been the handsome one when we were young.

“You don’t look a day over fifteen.” He said one morning as I made him some coffee.

“Only on the outside,” I replied, adding some milk but no sugar and handing it over to him.

“Nothing lasts.” He grumbled as he shook out his paper and distractedly returned the kiss I gave as I sat beside him.

***

“How do you stand working here? It’s like a fucking zoo.”

“Ymir! Language!” Krista was folding laundry as fast as she could. “Visiting Day is tomorrow and if I don’t have the tablecloths pressed—”

“Let me guess. The world will end? Time as we know it will cease to exist?”

“You’ve been watching too many Sci-Fi movies,” Krista mumbled, just trying to finish her work.

Ymir grabbed another load of fresh-from-the-dryer tablecloths and got back to pressing them. On her way though, she just couldn’t resist giving Krista a little slap on the rear.

“Ymir!”

“Krista!” Ymir replied mockingly, continuing with her work.

“What if one of the old folks sees you do that?”

“I’ll tell them to get over themselves. It’s the twenty-first century, for fuck’s sake.”

“Language!”

“Please. If my parents could get over it, these assholes can.”

“Their families are paying us to give them a good home!”

“Yes, yes, alright. Whatever you say, dear.” Ymir smirked when Krista threw a washcloth at her.

“Have you finished reading the journal yet?”

Ymir paused for a moment. “No. Armin still has it. Did you finish it before he took it?”

“Yes.” Krista just folded for a minute, but Ymir knew she wasn’t done.

“Did it end well?”

“I…I don’t know. I guess it did. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

***

My memory has started to fade. I can’t tell when it’s going to happen, but there are moments of blurriness that I can only remember vaguely, like I’ve been in a dream, and when I come back to myself, I don’t know where I am for a moment. Jean is always beside me, with his wrinkled hands holding mine and a gentle smile on his face. The doctors say if they didn’t know any better, it would appear that I have the beginnings of dementia. I have acne, and though my body is fitter and more flexible than it ever was before, I am clumsy and don’t have the mind to use it.

So I’ve taken to writing this. I want to have something, for Jean, and for Erwin’s niece, Krista, who runs the home with Eren and Mikasa’s boy Armin now. I want something to still be here, when I’m not. I want the part of me that remembers to remain. It might be pitiful, to be thinking of trying to save a piece of myself now, after a full life, but I want it nonetheless.

. . .

The bits where I’m still here are shorter now, like spurts of life from a dying light bulb. But I have more to say.

‘For what it’s worth, it’s never too late—or in my case too early—to be who you want to be. There’s no time limit; you can start whenever you want. You can change, or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. You can make the best or the worst of it, and I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that stop you. I hope you feel things you’ve never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. And if you find that you’re not, I hope you find the strength to start all over again.’

. . .

It’s me. Jean. I’ve taken to filling these last pages, because you can’t. I figure you would have wanted some sort of ending to your story. Or maybe you wouldn’t. I can’t really say. But I know you’d say ‘no regrets’ if you were here, so screw it. I’m going to finish this thing.

There wasn’t much you remembered in the last days, if I’m being honest (and I know you would want me to be honest). You still knew all the songs from our childhood; I guess that’s a pretty common occurrence with the elderly. Or rather, people with dementia. When I took you to the home, you seemed to recognize it, and you ran straight to the piano and began to pound out some familiar notes, though you lacked the finesse you used to have.

I took you to visit your family in the graveyard, and you put your tiny hand on Levi’s gravestone and told me proudly that this was where your ‘papa’ was buried. How Levi would have laughed at you for that one.

The dementia made you angry sometimes though, and you never used to be that way. Sometimes you didn’t believe me when I told you things, and you’d scream in ways you never used to, except when I crashed the car that one time.

As you got younger and younger I’d read you poems from that ratty old book that was your favorite when we were kids. We moved into the home, so Krista and Armin could take care of me while I could take care of you. It felt strange, to be treating you like a small child. I guess it’s something like how you felt around me.

Once, you looked up at me, and I swear you knew me. There was clarity there that I hadn't seen in years. You reached your little hand up, and I gave you my finger to hold. You made a little pleading noise, and I chuckled.

"You wanna here our song? Well, alrightthen. But you know I'm no good with music."

I took a deep, preparatory breath, and started to sing softly, rocking you back and forth on the old porch. " _We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when; but I know we'll meet again some sunny day...keep smiling through, just like You always do, till the blue skies drive the dark Clouds far away. So will You please say hello to the folks that I know, Tell them I won't be long. I wont be long. They'll be happy to know as You saw me go, I was singing this song. We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day."_  
  
 You smiled up at me, blinking those big eyes and squeezing my finger. Then you closed your eyes, as if to go to sleep, and you were gone.

The sun set as quietly and beautifully as it always had, and I remembered all the times we had watched it together, and all the times we had spoken of its beauty and the meaning people found in it, and I thought that I finally understood.

There was no better way to say goodbye to you.

“You’re so lucky you went first. But then, you were always first. First to like me, first to figure out you loved me, first to think about the future, first to take the jump and come back to me. I guess it fits that you’d be first here too.”

I leaned back in the chair and held you close, though I knew you were far and away.

. . .

We cremated you, like you wanted. I went out with Armin on a boat, and we spread your ashes over the sea. I read your favorite poem, and I did it without crying. I think my tears have dried up, actually.

After that was done, Krista made us a cup of your favorite tea and we sat and watched the waves lap over the dock, just like we used to.

It seems strange, but I can still feel you. I don’t know if it’s psychological (it probably is, though that may just be the pessimist in me) or if you are really lingering, but it’s a mild comfort, to know you might be waiting for me.

I can feel you in the little things. I feel you in the warm wind that breathes over my skin, and in small acts of kindness that I see people do. I feel you in the waves lapping on the shore and the way the stairs of the old house creak like my bones. I feel you as I look at the table we used to hide under, and the way children’s eyes shine with the same light that filled yours.

I feel you everywhere I look, and I see you when I close my eyes, and I know now what everyone meant when they said love lasts forever.

I feel very lucky to have lived my Life with you, and so blessed that I got to know you. I have no regrets.

I’m not so scared anymore about whether I’ll see you.

I’m not sure why that is.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. I could write about these two forever, and I could write about this au forever, but I wanted to keep this short and sweet (queue eye rolling) A few words, before I say goodbye.
> 
> First of all, [Yes it's true, homosexuals did not](http://remember.org/witness/wit.vic.homo.html) [receive restitution](http://www.chgs.umn.edu/educational/homosexuals.html) . However, it is also true that Germany has been trying to [remedy this](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/18/world/europe/for-60th-year-germany-honors-duty-to-pay-holocaust-victims.html) . If anyone has more research on the subject that they would like to share I'd like to see it.
> 
> The song Jean sings is [We'll Meet Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY)
> 
> I hope I did right by these characters. I know personally how hard it is both to take care of someone who is dying and also to be taken care of, and I hope I portrayed that with dignity.
> 
> Thank you so much if you made it to the end of this very long and slightly sad fic. I wanted to keep the smut to a minimum in this, for several reasons; I don't particularly like writing smut in 1st person, and also...it's a journal. I don't write about my smutty adventures in my journal either :P.  
> Finally, I have something for you:
> 
> Do not stand at my grave and weep  
> I am not there. I do not sleep.  
> I am a thousand winds that blow.  
> I am the diamond glints on snow.  
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
> I am the gentle autumn rain.  
> When you awaken in the morning's hush  
> I am the swift uplifting rush  
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
> Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
> I am not there. I did not die.  
> \--Mary Elizabeth Frye


End file.
